


Glittering Gold

by amongthieves



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I wrote it when I was high, I'm so sorry I have no clue what this is, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 14:13:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9903062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amongthieves/pseuds/amongthieves
Summary: Cullen can't help but staring at Dorian's rings, and Dorian has noticed since day one.





	

Cullen’s never noticed the way Dorian’s rings glitter in the sun, heat beating down on them from the tough Western Approach sky. There’s a ruby in one of them, and Cullen has found himself staring at it multiple times throughout the day.

First was when the Inquisitor was talking, Dorian had been putting his rings back on his fingers, wiping the sweat off his brow. Cullen had noticed this, but thought nothing more of it.

Second, while Dorian was eating, fork close to his mouth. Though, Cullen had to admit, he had noticed Dorian’s tongue first, the ruby ring second. The gold was smooth, not a scratch on it. At least, from what Cullen could see.

Lastly, at night, when camp was settling in and Dorian hair was wet, not quite done up the usual way. Cullen had seen the mage run his fingers through his hair, the ring catching the light of the setting sun. Skin glistening.

He tries not to think too much about Dorian and his rings.

—

By the end of the seventh day, Cullen starts to miss the wreck called Skyhold. He’d much rather take the draft through the hole in his room than the exhausting and choking heat from the desert. At night, even when the moon hangs in the middle of the sky, Cullen still finds his feet scorched from the sand. He moves quickly, not wasting anytime when he has to get up to attend to a sudden meeting or take in a soldier that bleeds from wounds all over. Maybe he should put on shoes, but his feet do not do well in steel boots in the heat.

He remembers seeing Dorian, feet pale, walking across the sand as though it were grass, grace in every step. Unaffected as by most things, he seemed, and Cullen found himself wondering what would take Dorian by storm. The mage seemed close enough to the Inquisitor if that anything were to happen to him, Dorian would raise more wrath than the Maker ever could. That Dorian would become the opposite of anything holy, and become a fate worse than death. And though Cullen has never seen Dorian in a rage, he can only imagine the man’s fury would be worse than any Darkspawn ever brought into existence, and that was unimaginable.

Begging Josephine for his immediate return, he finds shame in her lectures as to why his presence is needed. The Inquisitor is there, and there are duties to tend to in his wake. She tells him to try a little longer, and that _if the Inquisitor can bear the heat, you can too_. Which Cullen finds is utter bullshit, but he’ll never say that out loud to her. Dorian somehow seems to read his mind (or maybe he’s just being painfully obvious about it, but then again, he couldn’t doubt Dorian reading his mind somehow), and walks over to him as Cullen leans against a table, exhausted and sagged with fatigue. Another man had died tonight, one of his own. 

With nothing more than a quick smile, Cullen’s body cools instantly and the irritation from fatigue gently falls into a relaxed trance. It feels as though he’s fallen into a cold bath, heat abolished from his body in the most pleasant way possible. 

“It’s a proximity spell, so you better stay with me,” Dorian’s voice calls as Cullen feels the warmth begin to fill his bones. A pleasant chill sinks back into his skin as he jogs to walk behind Dorian, eyes closed as he drinks in the sensation of feeling at ease. He wears he can feel magic hands digging into his muscles, relaxing every fibre of his being. 

“Do you need help with anything?” The sensation sends a chill through his spine as he remembers the mages from the tower enticing him, soft touches and gentle words before slaughtering his men, creating nightmares that Cullen could never recover them.

Yet here he was, allowing Dorian’s touch all over him. A mage. A killer. Not that Cullen hasn’t killed men himself— but this, Dorian’s powers, was different.

“No.”

“Then why are you still up? Shouldn't the commander of the army be getting a good night’s rest?”

“There was a man who needed attention.”

“I didn’t think you were that type of man, Cullen.” Dorian chucks a smarmy grin over his shoulder as Cullen stammers for a moment, clearing his throat.

“The man was injured from the beasts out in the sand. I like to know when my men need my aid. He died.”

“I didn’t know you were a healer. Shame you didn’t get to him fast enough.”

“I can’t heal them… but I should at least be there for them. They have left their families to fight for us, it’s the least I can offer.” Cullen kicks softly at the sand, watching a white streak of light tear across the sky. In the brief moment, Cullen recounts looking at Dorian’s rings, noticing their outlines in the dark.

He swears he hears a small stifled laugh come from Dorian, but looking at the back of his head, he can’t tell. The chill slips off his shoulders like a cloak, his body returning back to a hot sweat. It’s better this way, the mage’s touch of the void more unsettling than Cullen initially thought.

“I’m going to try and sleep. You should too, commander.” Dorian drifts away like loose land, taking Cullen’s breath with him. 

—

 

Once he’s back in Skyhold, he returns to his haggard room with a sigh, happily to be back in the shivering cold. He wraps a set of furs around his shoulders, metal clanking as he takes off his boots at his desk. His feet are torn up, peeling from the heat. The journey back hadn’t been a simple one, a few groups of abomination having gotten in their way. It had been no challenge, but Cullen had not slept very well the previous night.

He thought about Dorian, draped in silks, laying across the sand. Cullen’s feet had burned in the dream, but he walked with determination. Had laid with him, pressed flesh as hot as sand together. The image seared into his mindas he woke, short of breath, a man without the Tevinter accent calling his name. They were ordered to move out, return back to the fort. And here they were, torn with frustration with their lack of progress.

There’s still sand in his boots, and it makes him groan in frustration. 


End file.
